Not The First
by blemished
Summary: What if Sherlock wasn't the first Holmes that John Watson met. What if he met another while he was serving in Afghanistan.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've never really written anything like this before, and I've never published anything either.**

**I think it starts off a bit slow, but stick with me and I'll do my best.**

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Although I have never mentioned this before, Sherlock was not the first Holmes that I met. Of course when I first met Sherlock I did not realise this, but in time I came to the conclusion that I had met one before. Perhaps I should explain.

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While serving Queen and country in Afghanistan I was an army medic, a captain assigned to a small team that did reconnaissance missions. We called ourselves the Misfits because we were the ones with skills that didn't really fit in anywhere else. To be fair, the boys always said I would fit in anywhere they stationed me, but I always thought of myself as an outsider.

Our team leader was Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Davies. Davies was a good man. He managed to find the perfect balance between following orders and breaking the rules. He fancied himself a practical joker, and you always had to check your boots for bugs and snakes and other nasty surprises. He was also a brilliant strategist and planned all our skirmishes right down to the last bullet.

Second in command was Lieutenant Samuel "Serious Sam" Bell. Sam was, as his nickname suggests, very serious. Straight as an arrow, he always followed the rules. Sometimes he was so caught up in his rules and regulations and being a soldier that he forgot we were still human beings. Thank god for Davies who always reminded him that we could have fun too. Sam was an engineer and a wiz with computers. If it had wheels or microchips Sam was your man.

Private Owen Woods and Private Harrison Clarke were the remaining members of the team. Woods with tactical weapons and sniper training and Clarke with his aptitude for hand-to-hand combat made our team capable of any mission.

One winter morning (and when I say winter, I mean that it was 32 degrees Celsius, rather than 35) Davies was called to the visiting Field Marshall's tent. Generally being called to the field marshall's tent meant one of two things, you were either getting promoted, or you were getting punished. Both had us worried, because either way we might lose our team leader.

When he came back, Davies had a smile on his face.

"Is it good news then?" asked Clarke, "Have we lost you?"

"Don't be stupid. We're far too successful for them to break us up. Apparently we are going to have another team member for a few weeks though," explained Davies. "A Brigadier named Smith apparently, so we are all to be on our best behaviour. Apparently MI6 borrowed the bloke a few years back and decided not to give him back. And now we have him."

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When you get assigned a superior officer, especially in a clandestine team like ours, there is normally some friction as the team tries to keep out the intruder and stay loyal to their leader and all that. We were all worried about how this Smith fellow would react to us.

"What do you think doc?"

"What's that Sam?"

"Do you think the brigadier will be a right bastard?"

"I don't know Sam"

"Don't call me Sam! Its Lieutenant Bell."

"Yes, sir, Sam, sir."

Sam just smiled. We were like that. Like brothers. All of us were. What would happen when some MI6 trained army officer came and saw our command chain. Questioning orders was second nature to us, it kept us alive in the field. Would an outsider accept that I would not just shoot someone because I was told to, that I was a doctor first and a soldier second? We could only hope.

* * *

Three days later the Misfits were called to the field marshall's tent. Inside was the field marshall and a short, barely 5'7'' rather unimposing man in full camouflage gear including a helmet.

"This is Brigadier Smith. Don't let size fool you, Smith could take any of you and win. Smith is here to recover lost munitions, or to at least to find and tag for later retrieval. I expect you to accommodate any of Smith's needs." The Field Marshall's serious tone had us holding in our laughter. Clarke had never been beaten on base. When we had boxing matches everyone bet on Clarke. I remember thinking 'surely this little man couldn't do anything of real harm to our 6'2'' martial arts master'.

I would come to realise how wrong I was.

* * *

Smith was quiet. Kept to himself most of the time. We moved through the districts easily and Smith didn't contradict any orders Davies or Bell gave. In fact, most of the time he followed their orders too. We were curious as to what Smith was doing because it seemed that any team could have done what he was doing.

Several times I asked Smith about himself, but he always avoided answering, and I was beginning to worry the poor fellow couldn't talk.

About three weeks later we had two days off. I was looking forward to relaxing and doing some reading. Clarke and Woods had gotten in on the "fights" that some Americans had organised. I decided to go and watch the fights, no doubt I'd have to clean one of them up.

As I entered the tent they were fighting in I saw that all the Misfits were there, even Smith. Woods was complaining in the corner with a split lip, which didn't surprise me at all, but what did surprise me was Clarke fighting the American in the ring. Within 30 seconds Clarke had lost.

"Nice try, Ace," smirked the American, "but don't feel so bad. There's no way you would be the first to beat Lt Ford. Any of you other Brits want to try?"

I was half tempted to have a go myself, but I was nowhere near as good as Clarke and I don't particularly like concussions. As I thought this Ford smirked and was about to leave the ring, when Smith pushed him back in, then climbed in too. Davies tried to stop Smith, but he wouldn't be deterred.

Ford began taunting, "Look at you little man, you're country must really be suffering if the height restriction is so low. I'll just wait while you go get a ladder so you can reach my face. Come on then munchkin, take of your helmet so we can see your green hair!"

Smith smiled and took off his helmet and placed it down at the edge of the ring. While he had his back turned Ford rushed him. I cried out a warning, but I shouldn't have bothered, because Smith turned around and punched him in the gut as he came towards him.

Ford staggered backwards from the force of the blow. Then seemed angry "You got in a lucky punch, but now your dead."

He took a step towards Smith and swung his hand, but Smith reacted faster, caught his hand, twisted it behind his back and forced him to his knees. In under a minute Smith had pinned him. I couldn't believe that the man who took Clarke so easily could be beaten so quickly.

Smith smirked, then went to climb out of the ring, and Ford, showing what was clearly his favourite move, attacked from behind again. This time Smith showed no mercy and broke the mans clavicle with one blow. As he continued to climb out of the ring one of the other American soldiers started laughing.

"Well I might have known it. Who else could beat a tank like Ford so quickly? Men put your hands together for Stephanie Holmes!"

Holmes? _Stephanie?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow! I didn't think anyone would read this so I****'****m really excited! Thanks to Alys5 and Google Eleanor for your reviews!**

**Also, just for some clarification, its too difficult to actually work out how old all the characters are supposed to be (and I'm really too lazy) but I know that Mycroft was quite a bit older than Sherlock - I'm going to guess about 7-8 years. And Stephanie is younger than Sherlock.**

**Does anyone know whether Watson is older or younger than Sherlock? Not that it really matters, I'm just curious :)  
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**Oh, and I forgot a disclaimer. Don't own, not making money, wish I had both though.**

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_I hear people all the time saying things like "I should have known something was wrong" or "I should have noticed something, all the signs were there!" but when I think back, before her 'outing' I had no idea that she was a woman. Probably would have gone on like that unless she got hurt and I had to examine her. That probably would have been more awkward. Or maybe not…_

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"I think you're mistaken, sir," Clarke stepped forward, "See this is Brig. Smith. He has been assigned to our detail for a short period while we complete our current mission."

But even as Clarke spoke, I looked more closely at the soldier in front of me. I had thought him small and slight, but now I was beginning to think that he had too many curves, and that he wasn't really slight at all, but very toned. And not a he. Now I could see it. Definitely a woman.

"Jesus Christ on a Crutch! Do they really think you're a man, Steph?" this from the American who had outed her.

And then, Smith spoke, and expelled any remaining doubt. "Yes, Col. Fairview. They think I'm a man. Or they thought I was a man until you opened your stupid Yankee mouth." Fairview began to speak, but Smith - or was it Holmes - interrupted. "I don't want to hear what you have to say, your lame excuses won't work this time. The last time we worked together I was under your command. Young and stupid I trusted you, even though everything you did told me you were lying. Get you and your men out of my sight before I call your commanding officer and tell him about your little morphine problem."

Fairview was stricken. He looked horrified at the thought of what she could do. Smith/Holmes turned and for a moment I saw straight into her eyes, and I don't ever remember seeing anything like it. There was a determination and strength there, but I'm sure I could see desperation and hopelessness, too.

She walked away, leaving a very confused bunch of Misfits behind her.

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"What the hell was that?" The impolite query came from Sam at dinner in the mess. "I mean. She's been with us for weeks and no-one thought to tell us that, oh, I don't know, that our highest ranking officer is a _woman_!"

"I wonder why she decided to hide it from us?" I pondered, "I mean, even if her orders were to make it seem like she was a man, it would be so easy to let the ruse drop. She could have made it look like an accident. Instead she put a lot of effort in making sure we wouldn't find out."

"Ar domph fink ee madders."

"Ugh, Woods. Swallow before you speak."

"Sorry, sir. I said I don't think it matters. Who cares if she's a woman? They don't just give promotions away, so she obviously worked hard to get to where she is now. Why don't we go and talk to her, see what she has to say for herself."

"Good plan Woods," this from Davies. "Dinner first, then we'll go find her."

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We went back to our room to find her, and found all of her things packed up as if she was ready to leave. She was standing at the foot of her bed arguing on a sat phone.

"…no, that isn't an excuse…I don't care if he's the son of the Queen of Sheba…he had orders to completely forget I existed and he ignored them…" Without turning around she held up a finger to us. "I have to go. Come up with something fast or I'm going back to MI6."

She hung up the phone and threw it down on her cot. Then she turned to us.

"I suppose you have a few questions for me then. Let me explain who I am first, then you can ask anything you want.

"I was born Stephanie Smith. My mother was an analyst who worked for the government doing god knows what. When I was 11 years old my mother died. My father wasn't around anymore and _certain people_ were afraid that my mother had told me things that I wasn't supposed to know.

"It was decided that I needed to stay with someone within my mothers department, someone who could ascertain any information I might have picked up and monitor my behaviour. A young man decided that I would be a good way to further his career. He was promising on his own, but if he had me he would be working closely with his superiors.

"His name was Mycroft Holmes. He was only in his early twenties, but he seemed very middle aged, very serious. Long story short, turns our we got on well, and I had a knack for this thing he could do, finding small details and piecing together the truth. He decided to adopt me, and I became Stephanie Holmes.

"Mycroft was already very powerful when I enlisted, and I found myself rising quickly through the ranks because it seemed that everyone knew who I was. I decided to use my birth name while serving to avoid this. Around this time MI6 approached me to do some work for them. Apparently I was quite good at 'collecting important information' and they rewarded me with military titles.

"When I came back to serve the army here in Afghanistan I had trouble with the other soldiers. Most resented that their commanding officer was a woman. We, that is, the Ministry of Defence and I decided that the best way for me to be useful was for me to be reassigned to different teams as my expertise was needed. We also decided to hide that I was female. Since I would only be working with small groups for short amounts of time there seemed to be no problem. Unfortunately for me there are morons like Fairview out there who are incapable of following orders."

She seemed to be finished speaking. We all stood in silence for a few minutes. Then, all at the same time:

"So what is your area of expertise?" from Davies.

"Why did you serve under Fairview?" from Sam.

"How old are you anyway?" from Woods.

"Why back to the army?" from Clarke.

And I asked "So what do we call you anyway?"

She laughed at the cacophony of noise we made, then said "My area of expertise is anything you need. I served under Fairview because I was attached to their unit at one point for a mission. Its none of your business how old I am. I came back to the army because I got hurt working for MI6 and frankly just needed a change in scenery. And you can keep calling me Smith."

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The next day we were part of an escort for the transport of some munitions. As we walked I began to notice that Smith seemed less tightly wound, that her movements now seemed more natural. She was louder now, too, making fun of everyone just like the rest of us. I found her dry sense of humour refreshing and she had us all giggling like little girls before long.

"Why did the monkey have bacon and eggs on its head?" she'd ask, and we would reply, "I don't know," and she'd say, "Because he thought he was a gorilla. Get it! A gorilla, a griller," and then she'd smile this beautiful big smile of hers and we'd fall apart laughing.

"There is something I was wondering though," I said as we walked.

"What's that Doc?"

"What make you think Fairview was addicted to morphine?" This had been bugging me all night, "I couldn't see any signs of it after you mentioned it, and I'm a fully trained doctor!"

A small smile played around her lips, she looked at me, and I noticed she had the greenest eyes. It also felt like she was staring into my soul. "You are not an only child. But I would say that you don't have many siblings. I would be surprised if you had more than one. And you are the youngest."

"Lucky guess. So that is what you were talking about, that thing that Matthew taught you!" I exclaimed.

"Mycroft."

"What?" I was confused.

"His name is Mycroft. And yes, it is what he taught me. He taught me to watch, to not look over things but look into them. To not just see, but observe. It's what made me a good MI6 agent.

"For instance. I can tell you are not an only child because they tend to have a more privileged air about them. Lieutenant Bell over here is an only child." Sam looked surprised.

"You don't have many siblings because you are most comfortable in a small unit like this, unlike Private Clarke over here who preens in front of an audience like he would have done at home." Clarke grinned.

"Your sibling, you only have one, I can see that now, is older. I an tell this because you have not risen above the rank of Captain. You have all the qualities of a good leader, but feel more comfortable following, like you used to when you were young."

I was astounded. She could tell all of that just by comparing behaviour.

"That was amazing!" Davies exclaimed, "Can you tell whether it was a brother or a sister?"

"No," was Smith's response, "I can only guess that, there is no evidence either way. And guessing is messy, just like assumptions. And you know what they say about people who assume."

We all laughed again.

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_Steph served with us for another 8 months. She told me to start calling her Steph not long after this. None of the others were as comfortable around her as I was. We fast became friends. After I was shot she arranged for the best medical care possible. She even made sure that they didn't boot me out of the hospice before I found somewhere else to live…_

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**Next up, John realises Sherlock is Mycroft's brother.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm having fun with this, and having people add me to their alerts and favourites is very exciting. Friday is my last day at university this semester (YAY!) so I should be free to update more often now :)**

**Oh, and I mentioned The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in passing in this chapter. I don't own that either, but I find it awesome that of all the characters they could have picked, they chose one from Sherlock Holmes. It seemed appropriate.  
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I was thankful that Steph was taking care of my housing costs, but I felt bad about depending on her. I decided that I was going to find somewhere else to live. The problem was that I couldn't find anywhere that I could afford on an army pension, and no-one wants to hire a surgeon who has shaking hands.

When I ran into Mike Stamford in the park I was pleased. It had been years since I had seen anyone from St Bart's. When he mentioned that I wasn't the first person to tell him that I was an impossible flatmate I was curious. Who could be worse than a ex-soldier with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp ? Mike offered to introduce me to this bloke, and show me around St Bart's while we were there.

The man Mike introduced me to was, to put it in the nicest way possible, odd. Physically he was tall, but painfully skinny, his features would be considered attractive, but so pale. And then there was the way he treated Molly, the lab technician. It was almost as if he thought of her as a puppet.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Uh, excuse me?"

As soon as he started to tell me all about myself, I flashed back to the day where Steph us about our siblings. Here was another person doing what she could do, but way more seriously.

And when he said his name was Sherlock _Holmes_ I swear I almost fainted.

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In the taxi with Sherlock, on the way to god knows where, he told me all about my brother and his wife splitting. I was amazed at all he would work out, just from my phone. Of course he got the genders confused, but sometimes I wondered about Harry. I mentioned his website, the Science of Deduction. Now I had a name to put with the ability to not let me have any secrets.

When I told Sherlock that Harry was my sister he wasn't even shocked. He just exclaimed that there was always something, then we got to the crime scene. He ridiculed Donovan and Anderson about their affair then raced up the stairs.

And the night only had more surprises for me.

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When the black, unmarked car pulled up beside me, I can't say I was particularly surprised. The creepy big brother routine with the CCTV cameras led me to think something like this would happen. But when the man with the umbrella told me in that sinister voice that he worried about Sherlock "constantly" I knew that I could not accept his money, no matter how tempting it might have been.

I didn't know how Sherlock was related to Steph, but it was clear that he was related somehow. It was just too much of a coincidence, both having the last name Holmes, both being so brilliant, absolute geniuses. I was violently curious, but knowing how they were related wouldn't help me here. I would do anything to protect Steph and that now meant protecting Sherlock whatever the cost, so I turned the clearly powerful, perhaps slightly deranged, man down.

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When I realised that Sherlock had gone with the cabbie I swear my heart stopped for a moment. I had only just decided to protect him at all costs, and he runs off with a deranged killer?

While the police seemed oblivious, I re-searched the pink lady's phone. When I found where Sherlock was I took off as fast as I could. When I got to the buildings I picked one at random and ran through calling Sherlock's name. When I came to that final room and saw Sherlock through the window I could have throttled him. I raised my gun, but a voice in my head said _wait_. I waited. _Don't shoot if you don't need to, maybe he knows what he is doing_.

The voice belonged to Steph, and for a moment I was transported back to Afghanistan.

_You have to trust your friends, Doc. You have to trust yourself. Trust yourself to know when you need to shoot and when you don't. If all else fails, listen to that little voice in your head._

I bet she didn't realise she would be that voice in my head, I thought.

_I don't see how no-one has taught you to shoot properly before. It's part of basic training! And don't give me that look, what you do isn't shooting, it's spraying bullets and hoping for the best. Remember that movie we watched? _The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_, with Sean Connery? Remember what he said? "_If you can't do it with one bullet, don't do it at all_." It's a good point._

It was a good point. Before she trained me it was 'point your gun and shoot 'til you haven't got any bullets left'. I told her that this was a good thing, suppressive fire, and she asked what happens when you get ambushed again 10 minutes later. Then you were still stuck.

_So take your time. Shoot on the exhale. Feel your heartbeat, let it slow. The less your body is moving, the better your shot will be. _

I remember the first time I inhaled as I shot. I completely missed. Then she punched me in the solar plexus. I doubled over completely winded. "_Now you have to shoot on the exhale_" she said.

_Don't shoot if you don't need to, you're a doctor even if you are a soldier. There are plenty of non-lethal targets: shoulders, legs – specifically knees down, you don't want to sever the femoral artery. Shoot to kill only if you have to._

Only if I have to. And right now it looks like they are just talking. Aren't they? I opened the window on my side just in case. What's that in Sherlock's hand? Oh god, it's a pill and the idiot is going to swallow it. I raised my gun and positioned my feet, apart, one further back than the other for balance. As Sherlock put the pill to his mouth I breathed out and aimed for the cabbies shoulder.

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I found it easy to walk away from that kill. I think it was because I was protecting Steph (in a round-a-bout way). Sherlock and I even giggled, though I thought that was bad taste.

"That's him!" I said suddenly, recognising the umbrella man.

Sherlock and the man began to talk and all of a sudden I had new information. Mycroft Holmes had kidnapped me. Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers. That's how Steph fit in. I suppose technically Sherlock was Steph's uncle, but she had never given me any indication that she thought of Mycroft as a father, and Sherlock could have only been a year or two older than she was.

I'm sure I successfully hid my shock at finding out I'd met Mycroft behind finding out they were brothers. That in itself was a shock. But now I had a new problem: How do I tell Steph I've met her family?

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That night, as I paced back and forth in my new bedroom in 221B Baker St, I wondered how to tell Steph. In the end, I decided to take the cowards way out. Or maybe I was just following Sherlock's bad example.

_**Message Sent: Stephanie Smith, 2:54am**_

_Met Mycroft today. Moved in with Sherlock –JW_

_**Message Received: Stephanie Smith, 2:59am**_

_You have been busy :). See you soon –SS_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I feel bad for not uploading for so long. So you get two chapters tonight.

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I was slightly worried about Steph's _see you soon_ message. She had put a smiley face in the message and she hadn't called an yelled at me, so I'm assuming I'm not in trouble. But I'm still worried.

Since then I decided to blog about our cases. It's more fun than anything else I could think to write, and there's only so many times I can blog about the unmanned checkouts. We worked on the case I called The Blind Banker, too. It had been a while since I'd heard from Steph. Maybe she would just pretend I hadn't moved in with Mycroft's brother.

Oh, who am I kidding?

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Sherlock was out doing god knows what. Probably annoying Molly, poor thing (Molly, not Sherlock). At least he wasn't here annoying me. He wasn't exploding eyes in the microwave or studying knife striations in polished wood or shooting holes _in the bloody wall_. I was beginning to think Mrs. Hudson's catchcry was "That'll come out of your rent, dearies".

When I heard the door downstairs open and close, then no footsteps on the stairs my first thought was _oh good, Mrs Hudson is home_ then _but she wasn't out, so maybe Sherlock is trying to sneak up on me_. But Sherlock was better than that, if Sherlock was going to sneak up on me, he would do it so quietly I wouldn't have any hint at all.

I went over to the desk and pulled out my gun, then sat down in Sherlock's seat so I could face the door. When I heard the door start to squeak open I stood, crossed the room, and pointed my gun into the face of someone who could probably kill me a million different ways before I could pull the trigger.

"STEPH!" and then I dropped the gun and picked her up and swung her around.

"Whoa, hey there, Doc. I was going to ask if you missed me, but I guess I don't need to now."

I am quite horrified to say that I blushed at that. She gave me a cheeky grin.

"Don't worry," she said as she picked up my gun and put it back in the desk drawer that I had pulled it out from only moments ago, "I missed you, too."

And then I remembered. That I had elbowed my way into her life here at home. I had done it inadvertently, but I had not tried to get out either. I had met the man who took her in when her mother died, and moved in with that man's brother. What if she wanted me to leave, to get away from her life? How could I leave Sherlock? The man was my friend, well, as close to a friend as Sherlock could be. But Steph was my friend too. Would she make me chose? Or what if she didn't want me around? What if I couldn't have either of them? I started to panic and my breathing was shallow. I could hear ringing bells and my vision had dark splotches on it.

"Doc, sit down. Doc? Doc!" why was she so urgent? What was wrong? "John, can you hear me?" Of course I can hear you, you're yelling at me. "John sit down!" I did, and she shoved my head between my knees. "Breathe, John. Relax. It's ok. I'm not going to make you chose. I think it's funny that you're living with Sherlock. Keep breathing, that's the way!"

I sat up slowly after my vision cleared. Blushing and hyperventilating within minutes. She must think I'm the most pathetic man in the world.

"I don't think you're pathetic, John. It's a good thing, in a bad way. It means that you care about me and you care about Sherlock."

"You called me John."

"Excuse me?"

"You called me John. That's the first time you called me by my first name."

She laughed her boisterous laugh, and I found a part of me relaxing. She didn't mind that I had pushed my way into her life. Her laugh started to slow.

"Of all the things you could have asked, all the things you could have said, you point out that I called you by your name?"

"You always call me Doc!"

"Well you weren't answering to Doc, were you?" she laughed again, "You know, Mycroft told me about Sherlock's new flatmate. He told me he was unusual, that he didn't react in the way most people did to Sherlock. I see what he means now. You ignore all the quirks and take him for what he is. I hope I'm not being too presumptuous, and I didn't tell Mycroft this, but I'm pretty sure that's because you are used to me."

It was my turn to laugh. "You know, you're probably right. If it wasn't for me being used to you just knowing things, you seeing things, I would probably have left by now." I frowned, "But he sees so much more than you did, and it worries me sometimes. He looks at me and it's like I have no secrets."

"He doesn't see more than me," she sighed, "and you have some secrets. He likes to think he's a sociopath, and he has cultivated that persona. He doesn't have that little voice in his head that tells him not to say the things he sees and he doesn't have the social skills to understand why not to say it anyway.

"I see everything he sees, and I can deduce the things he can. I just don't feel the need to say them out loud. It makes things awkward and I like to think I'm above Mycroft and Sherlock's petty rivalry."

I was shocked at her admission. I had been acting on the basis that Sherlock was better at deduction than Steph, not that they were as good as each other and she just had more tact. But as I thought about it, it started to make more sense. Something was still bothering me though.

"I have secrets from Sherlock?"

"Of course. Mycroft, too. After all, they don't know you know me do they? If you don't mind can we keep it that way? A little experiment of my own."

"What kind of experiment?" I had grown wary, and I wasn't entirely sure that Mycroft didn't know already, Sherlock did say that he WAS the government.

"I want to...You see Mycroft...They don't...ugh!" she began pacing. "Mycroft doesn't know about my exact postings. I didn't see why he needed to, he shouldn't get special privileges, so he doesn't know that I served with you.

"And he hardly notices I'm alive when I'm home. Since I won't work at MI6 anymore he doesn't seem to care. On one hand I'm scared to ask him if he doesn't care at all, scared of the answer he'll give me, scared that he'll tell me to leave. On the other I'm scared of not knowing, I can't tell myself. So I'm doing what he's taught me all my life, I'm using some ingenuity."

"And I get to fool Sherlock?" the idea that Mycroft hurt Steph this way made me angry, but the idea of beating Sherlock at his own game was exciting.

"Of course. All that you would have to do is act casually towards me if either or both of them are around. Don't pretend you don't know me, but don't act as if you do. For example, I know that Mycroft plans to come around here later, I'll come too. Don't introduce yourself to me the way you normally would, but just smile at me. If they notice then good, and if they don't well we can just plan it from there."

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Steph left minutes before Sherlock got home. He went back to sulking on the couch and I went out to get milk. When I got back Mycroft was waiting. He wanted Sherlock to get back some missile plans, the Bruce-Partington plans. I smiled at Steph who was sitting on the sofa, and went over to sit beside her. Neither brother noticed. I swear when they left I saw a tear run down her cheek. Sherlock didn't give me time to think about it. Lestrade needed him, and he needed me.

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After the hell the Holmes brothers had put me through the last two days I figured I deserved a night off. I told Sherlock I was going to Sarah's, then text Steph asking her to meet me somewhere. As I walked down the street I felt something sharp prick my neck and I reached up and pulled a tranquiliser dart out of my neck. _Bugger.

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_**Up next. My take on the ending of The Great Game.**  
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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I know I said it wouldn't be long, but I just couldn't get this out right. Mostly this is just the pool scene from John's perspective, but the next chapter is coming right up.**

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I woke slowly. Very slowly. My first thought was that I was back in Afghanistan. That I was in a field hospital drugged up to my eyes. I was groggy and weak. But then I realised that I wasn't lying down. I was sitting on a bench. In a small cubicle with a curtain over the door. I could smell and overabundance of chlorine and stale piss. There was only one place I could be.

"What the hell am I doing at a pool?" I wondered aloud.

"_So nice of you to join me_" The voice sounded tinny and odd, yet soft, and strangely familiar. I reached up and realised that someone had put an earpiece in my ear. The I saw my arm. Or rather my sleeve. That is, the sleeve of an oversized green parker that did not belong to me. What the hell?

"_I see you admiring your new jacket. I thought it would be something you would like. Your tastes are quite dull. You are quite dull. Nevertheless, I do suggest that you stay still until I tell you. And no sudden movement please. Your new clothes are quite...volatile._"

I was starting to be more aware of my person. I could feel a weight on my chest. More than the weight of the jacket on my chest. I gently unbuttoned the jacket and pulled it away from my body.

"Oh my god."

"_Do you like your new clothes, John? I had your vest special made. It is one of a kind, all for you._"

He was starting to really scare me. The things strapped to my chest were not the red-orange colour of the semtex I used in the army, but they were still clearly explosives.

"You're a lunatic! And you changed my clothes! While I was unconscious! What the hell?"

"_So narrow minded, John. Surely as a close and personal friend of Sherlock you can see the irony of this. No? Well, never mind then. And speaking of Sherlock, he has such great dramatic timing. Cover up your new clothes John. And you know how this works don't you? Don't say a word, John, not unless I say it first._"

"I brought you a little getting to know you present." Sherlock's voice was confident as I heard it echo around the pool. "That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles. Making me dance! All to distract me from this."

For the first time since I was shot I found myself truly praying. _Please let Sherlock live. My life for his brilliance. Oh god, Sherlock, leave while you have the chance. Please!_ I guess one miracle was all I was getting as I heard the voice in my ear again.

"_Get up John. Slowly now. That's the way!_" His soft voice made the patronising words that much worse. "_Out you go John. Poker face on! Remember, exactly what I say. Let's make Sherlock think you betrayed him first, hmmm?_"

I steeled myself for what I was about to put my friend through. Then I opened the curtain and stepped through into the dull brightness of the pool.

I put a blank expression on my face and turned to face Sherlock. He was not facing me, but his head swung around to look at the source of the noise I had made. In his hand I saw the USB drive we had retrieved earlier. Of course he didn't return it to Mycroft. I'm such an idiot!

Then I saw his face and my world stopped. He thought it was me.

And I heard the voice in my ear, and knew it was for repeating.

"Evening."

He looked incredulous. But somehow resigned too. Almost as if he expected that our partnership – no, our _friendship_ – was all fake.

"This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"

"John?" he sounded stunned. I would say speechless, but clearly he wasn't.

"Bet you never saw this coming." I could hear my words coming out wooden and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was hurting this brilliant man. This man who couldn't react to the world, who couldn't interact with the world. This man who looked to me to tell him right from wrong.

"_Oh John, that was fun! But let us break his heart a different way now, shall we?_"

Sherlock had turned and took a few steps towards me.

"_Open the jacket, John._"

"What...would you like me...to make him say...next?" The man in my ear was speaking in slow sentences. He wanted me to make it obvious that I was just a puppet. I looked down and saw a red laser dot on the explosives on my chest. For a moment I thought I should be scared, but my only thought was _funny, they must be a bad shot to need a guide._ Then I realised that they were just trying to make a point.

In the mean time Sherlock had begun to look up and around at the higher viewing level while slowly moving closer to me. He no longer looked like a boy who had his favourite toy taken away, so that was comforting.

Sherlock was still looking. He couldn't tell that the snipers were not on the level above us, but in the change rooms on the other side of the pool. I became more and more concerned. If he didn't know where the snipers were, how could he make a plan to get us out?

"Gottle o' gear. Gottle o' gear. Gottle o'..." my voice waivered. Thankfully Sherlock interrupted.

"Stop it." Completely calm and devoid of emotion, just like always. But still looking around.

"Nice touch this. The pool...where little Carl died. I stopped him..." _Say it, John._ "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

By this time Sherlock had almost reached me. He looked away from me, looking for the man behind the puppet I'd turned into. A door behind me opened.

"I gave you my number," The voice wasn't tinny anymore. It was real now. He was here. But he sounded slightly muffled, "I thought you might call."

Sherlock was staring intently at a spot at the far end of the pool.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me."

Sherlock took my gun from his pocket and aimed it at the man. "Both." His body faced me now and I could see that he was perfectly still.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" It was the greeting that really got to me. He sounded like an awkward teenager, not a psychopathic criminal mastermind.

Sherlock's face was blank. He didn't remember, had deleted this man from his 'hard drive'. Unimportant. But I could place the voice now that I had a name. It was Molly's gay boyfriend.

"Jim from the hospital?" Sherlock merely changed his stance to steady the gun with both hands, "huh, did I make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point."

I looked at Sherlock then, and I knew I looked exasperated. It was like having two of them, two Sherlocks. Out of the corner of my eye, or rather the bottom of it I guess, I could see – almost feel – the laser-sight moving further up my chest, on to my neck. I also saw Sherlock shift slightly, reacting to this.

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle." Though he had a point, it made me feel better knowing that Sherlock had a gun trained on the son-of-a-bitch.

They began to talk. Or rather, Moriarty began to brag and Sherlock questioned him like one of his little puzzles. But then they seemed to forget I was standing there, strapped into explosives with a sniper aiming at my chest.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock seemed almost admiring, "brilliant!" Yep, definitely admiring. I couldn't help but think that the two genii in the room had forgotten me.

"Isn't it?" Moriarty sounded please with himself, but he was still behind me, still pulling my strings, and he sounded so close. It was doing nothing to assure me I would make it out alive.

For a moment my thoughts ground to a halt and I had to look away from Sherlock. I probably wouldn't make it out alive. Not with Sherlock so wrapped up in the game and Moriarty so, well, crazy.

"No-one ever gets to me. And no-one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the hammer on my gun. "I did," he said, fully confident. Yep, he'd definitely forgotten that I was standing there, right beside him, with a vest full of explosives and a sniper aiming at me.

"You've come the closest, now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, ok, I did." Jesus. I was definitely going to die here.

"But the flirting is over Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now," was he singing? "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people. All those little problems. Even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear, back off." There was no trace of the light-hearted banter that they had been exchanging. Moriarty was deadly serious now. "Although, I have loved this," oh there it was again, "this little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, playing gay, did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died."

"That's what people DO!"

Wait. What? When he yelled I heard something. Like a heavy door closing gently.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: A continuation of the scene from The Great Game.**

**

* * *

**

I didn't have long to ponder the noise. Sherlock looked at me then.

"Are you alright?"

I felt Jim walk up right behind me. I could feel him invading my personal space as he lent over, "You can talk, Johnny-boy, go ahead." I simply nodded.

Sherlock held out the thumb drive. "Take it."

"Oh! That. The missile plan." He took in from Sherlock's outstretched hand and kissed it. "Bo-_ring_! I could have got them anywhere." And he threw it into the pool. All this for nothing. But I saw my chance. I wasn't getting out of here alive, but if I could help it Sherlock would.

I grabbed Moriarty from behind. "Sherlock! Run!" But Moriarty just laughed.

"Oh ho ho! _Good!_" he sounded deranged, "Very good!"

"Your sniper," I hissed, "pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we both go up."

"He's sweet," to Sherlock, "I can see why you like having him around, but then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. He's so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand their Dr. Watson." A red dot had appeared on Sherlock's forehead. I could do nothing but let go. "Gotcha!"

I stumbled back and the sniper trained his sight back on me.

"Westwood," Moriarty mentioned his suit, smug bastard wears designer clothes. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

"Kill you? Uh, no, don't be obvious. I mean I was going to kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying I will burn you. I will _burn_ the _heart _out of you." Moriarty almost sounded upset.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Sherlock's jaw tensed, "Well, I'd better be off," he looked around at me, then back to Sherlock, "so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face, 'cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would. And just a tiny bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch. You. Later."

As Moriarty left, "No you won't," he sung.

Sherlock stood pointing the gun at the closed door for a moment then looked at me. He dropped the gun and knelt down in front of me as I started to stumble back and he took the vest off me.

"Alright? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock. Sherlock!" He threw the vest and the jacket down the length of the pool. Then he went to go after Moriarty.

I felt my sight begin to darken and my legs begin to gave way as I reached out for support and thought _fainting twice in two days. Really, John?_ Then I remembered. _Steph_.

I had text her as I left. When I didn't turn up she would have looked for me. She was resourceful and probably had access to Mycroft's network. What if she turned up here? _Forget it, you have enough to worry about without that thought._

Sherlock walked back in. He had picked up the gun somewhere along the way. He paced down the pool scratching his head with it.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. I'm fine." But his answer was too fast, and I didn't believe it for a second. I could hear his heavy breathing, even over my own. "That, uh, thing...that you did...that you offered to do. That was, um, good."

I think I made a smart-arse comment about him ripping my clothes off, I'm not sure, but next thing I know he's smiling, and I am too. But the smile was gone when I went to stand and noticed a red dot on my chest again.

"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness," as he spoke more and more red beams appeared on mine and Sherlock's chest, "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked at me, seeming to communicate what he wanted to do, I nodded.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," and he aimed his gun at Moriarty first, then the bomb at his feet. Moriarty smiled. I could see Sherlock's finger twitch on the trigger when the voice came.

"Stop, Sherlock."

It was Steph. But not like I'd ever seen her before. Her hair fell in dark curls around her face and down her back. She wore a long purple dress, floor-length, and from the sound of her steps high-heels too. It was clear that she had been at some kind of high class function. She stood on the other side of the pool.

"There is no need to kill us all, Sherlock," he was still aiming at the vest and she continued to speak in a calm, level voice, the one I had heard when she issued orders, "there is no danger here."

"No danger? Are you blind?" Sherlock was furious, "John and I are both covered by snipers, Moriarty is standing right in front of me, and you are working with him!"

"What?" I spluttered, "You're working with Moriarty?"

"Of course not, John. Don't be silly. Sherlock is basing that assumption on the fact that no sniper has aimed at me." Still deadly calm.

"What else could it mean, John," Sherlock was mad, "how could she have known where we were? Mycroft would never have given her access to his resources! You don't know her, you only met her this morning. She isn't that smart. She couldn't have found us without inside help!"

"John, you know that simply isn't true. Even if I couldn't access Mycroft's resources, which I can, I am owed so many favours that it wouldn't have mattered."

"Well I've been here since Mr Moriarty started screaming about what people do. I had plenty of time to infiltrate."

"And who would come with you, hmmm? The morons from Scotland Yard? They couldn't have quietly infiltrated an echoing pool even if their lives depended on it."

"I came on my own."

"And you just happened to be able to knock out the team of snipers without me noticing?"

I looked at Sherlock, then at Steph. I couldn't tell who was telling the truth. Had Steph lied to me the whole time? It was just the kind of convoluted plan that Moriarty would hatch. Was she going to stand by and let this man kill us? Or was Sherlock wrong? He was rarely wrong. But had it happened now?

Her head fell to her chest, and I swore for a moment I saw pain on her face. When she lifted her head it was gone.

"Don't worry, Doc. I won't make you chose. I promised you that," she looked at Moriarty, "I'll fix your problems one final time."

"This is fun!" from Moriarty, "The baby of the family, Stephanie Holmes. Here to protect her mentor's brother and his pet." He didn't seem worried.

She walked straight over to Moriarty and held out her hand. "It seems you know who I am, but I don't have that advantage. You can call me Ms Holmes."

"Jim Moriarty," and he shook her hand.

"Well, Mr Moriarty..."

"Jim, please."

"Jim, then. It seems we are at an impasse. Y have a bomb. May I inspect it?"

"Of course you may look at Johnny-boy's vest, yes."

As she walked to the vest to pick it up, not a single red dot appeared on her head.

"How could you?" I cried. It was too much. First I was drugged and kidnapped, then I was put in a vest of explosives, then I was freed, then trapped again seconds later, then _Stephanie_ of all people was in league with Moriarty.

She looked at me, and all I could see was pain in her eyes. It hurt her to have me not trust her, but what other choice did I have, what other conclusion could I have come to with the evidence provided. She picked up the vest, and, with her back to Moriarty, began to remove the wires from the explosives on vest.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Deactivating your bomb. Plastic explosives are too stable. I can just remove the wiring."

This seemed to enrage Moriarty. "Shoot her." No response. "Shoot her now!" Pause. "SHOOT!"

And the Metropolitan Police who had just walked in did.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I hit a roadblock in this story. I must have rewritten this chapter six or seven times and just couldn't get it right. But I think that by skipping some time I've solved that problem. Sorry about the wait**

The next few hours were hectic, and that was putting it mildly.

When the police stormed the building it was chaotic. I dove to the floor taking Sherlock with me. The shots being fired surprised me and I reverted back to my training. By the time the bullets stopped flying and I looked up there was about 20 uniformed officers standing in front of various entrances around the pool. All of them were aiming at one thing. I looked over and even with my medical and military training almost threw up at the sight.

Moriarty was lying on the floor, his precious Westwood suit completely ruined. Not that he would need it anymore if the number of holes in the jacket were anything to go by. Blood was everywhere. The dark, swirling drip patterns in the clear blue pool water was almost mesmerising.

It took Sherlock under a minute to realise that Steph had left.

In under two he realised that the snipers had been incapacitated with some kind of fast acting gas.

In under three minutes he had deduced that the reason Steph had been in formal wear was that she was at a Scotland Yard benefit ball (not such a stretch – Lestrade looks good in a suit).

In under four he had deduced that she had also been shot.

* * *

Lestrade was furious at Sherlock for not telling him that he was going to meet Moriarty. So far, despite the fact it was 3am and no-one was really paying attention, Lestrade had been ranting and raving for 15 minutes about how reckless Sherlock was.

"You don't even seem to care that this Moriarty man _drugged and kidnapped_ John," Lestrade's face was turning an interesting shade of red in his anger. "You don't even care that you would have blown up the pool!"

"I did not blow up the pool. There is no use lecturing me over a hypothetical situation that never actually took place."

"But you were _willing_ to kill yourself and John! And as for your sister I'm just bloody thankful that she knew what was going on."

"Steph is not his sister," everyone in the room turned to look at me, "What? She's not!"

"Of all the things in that sentence, you chose to argue with the fact that I used the wrong relational noun?" Lestrade seemed incredulous and quite frankly willing to pull his hair out.

"Well I already knew that Sherlock was going to try to detonate the bomb, so that seemed like the right thing to object to."

"But how did you know she wasn't my sister?" I looked at Sherlock. He looked at me with the expression he used on a particularly annoying puzzle: one that he didn't want but was forced to solve anyway.

"You looked nothing alike..."

"That's not it," Sherlock interrupting wasn't even surprising anymore, "Mycroft and I look nothing alike, so you cannot assume another sibling would look like either of us. When Mycroft brought her over to the flat I did not introduce her to you and she didn't speak.

"You also sounded very sure that she wasn't my sister. Too sure. Not an assumption. You would have asked me if you were not sure, especially after the revelation that I would not willingly tell you about my relatives. So not a preconceived fact, a defined one. Who told you then? I can't have been Mycroft, he guards her more closely than he does me. Most people only know her as Smith, not Holmes, and those that do know her as Holmes know better than to open their mouths.

"Of course," Sherlock seemed to have solved the mystery, "Stephanie wears a ring on her left ring finger to discourage advances. You saw it and her proximity to Mycroft and assumed that she was his wife."

I was shaken to my core to hear Sherlock's deduction. His conclusion was completely flawed. Sherlock had lost interest in the problem and moved on to some other enigma that only he could see. Lestrade, however, being much more used to people having emotions, and not assuming everyone around was an idiot, interpreted the look on my face. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could I clapped my hand over it then pulled him to the nearest empty room.

"He got it wrong, didn't he?" Lestrade's face was filled with glee, "Sherlock bloody Holmes deduced something incorrectly didn't he?"

"Yes, he got it wrong. No, you cannot tell him. If he finds out your life will become very unpleasant."

Lestrade laughed, "How could life be unpleasant? He was _wrong_!"

"If he finds out that I already knew Steph I will move out of Baker St and leave you to pick up after him again," Lestrade's pale and quickly sober face was all the answer I need. "I'm going home. Bring Sherlock back whenever you're done yelling at him."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: two chapters, because I feel bad**

The next few months caused quite a bit of strain. Mycroft had not heard from Stephanie since the night at the pool. He had come to Sherlock a few weeks after to see if he had heard anything, and to see if he would investigate. When Sherlock made a smart-alecky comment about Mycroft's government contacts and resources Mycroft lost his cool and yelled at Sherlock.

* * *

_"I bloody well tried that, didn't I Sherlock? Do you think that I would come to you first? And even if I _would_ come to you first, surely I would have come sooner? I. Can't. Find. Her. I've asked everyone, and I mean everyone, even people that never met her. I can't find records of her leaving the country, but I don't think she's here either. I just can't STAND the idea of her being out there and not knowing if she's well or not. Please, Sherlock. Please. Look for her."

* * *

_

Since the day that Mycroft had literally begged his brother to find his adoptive daughter he came around more often. I would come home from the surgery to find Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair reading the paper at least twice a week. Sherlock, for his part, never seemed to pay attention to Mycroft and continued on with his experiments or investigations or whatever was occupying his brilliant brain this time.

After several weeks of this Sherlock seemed to suddenly realise that his brother was there.

_"Mycroft, do move out of my chair. I want to sit there,"_ or

_"Did you move my skull, Mycroft? Go find it!"_ or

_"Your distinctly bureaucratic thoughts are intruding on my thinking. Please cease and desist."_

Yet no matter how demanding or unreasonable Sherlock was Mycroft would always do as he asked, yet still hover around 221B.

* * *

Since it seemed that Sherlock was not investigating Steph's disappearing act and Mycroft's contacts couldn't get anything I decided to put out some feelers of my own.

The Misfits were more than happy to help. They in turn expanded the net of information I had coming to me. Slowly I started to hear things. Sightings. A nightclub in Amsterdam. A peace rally in Munich. Swiss Alps instructing children how not to fall over while skiing. But all the sightings were months old and the trails cold.

* * *

I walked into the blessedly Sherlock and Mycroft free flat hours early one day. Sarah had fired me. What she said: "There just aren't enough hours." What she meant: "I'm spiting you for dumping me."

I slumped into my chair and toed off my shoes. I let my head fall down until my chin hit my chest and sighed.

"Bad day, Doc?"

The voice that I had almost given up hearing again same from the kitchen. I looked around the back of my chair and there was Steph sitting at the table. Her hair had been cut short so it rioted around her head in curls, her face was dirty and bruised but her hands and leg were clean where she was stitching a laceration.

I didn't know what to say, I couldn't believe that she was just sitting there so casually. So I did what my instincts said to. I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, then took the suture kit she was using off her and took over the work on her leg.

"Did you use any kind of anaesthetic on this?" I asked.

"No. But I disinfected it first."

I looked at her dirty clothes. "Thoroughly? 'Cause you look like you rolled around on some train tracks."

She laughed. "I can take care of myself you know."

"That's why you have a cut on your leg."

"A cut that I was stitching up just fine."

"But a cut that you got all kinds of dirt and bacteria in. Why didn't you just go to a hospital?"

"Here was closer."

"You sure you didn't just want to see me?"

"Of course, Doc. Because when I'm bleeding out of a deep leg wound my first thought is 'I wonder how John Watson is? I think I might pop round for a visit'."

"It's not that deep. Don't be such a baby."

"Not crying am I?"

"No. But stop moving, or I'll stitch your pants to your leg."

At that we both started to laugh, and Sherlock and Mycroft both walked through the door.

"Well this is touching," Mycroft's remark was made in a harsh, biting voice, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. "Have you been in contact with her this entire time, John? Hiding her from me knowing that it would hurt me? Or maybe it was because you didn't have to worry about all your bills while I was spending most of my time here? Hmmmm?"

"Oh, do shut up, Mycroft," Steph's tone allowed no argument. "He's been looking for me all this time, using every contact he has, and not giving up unlike _you_. And I never intended to come back, but I followed someone here, and then when I got cut I thought that the easiest way would be to clean up here. I didn't think anyone would be home, but John has _impeccable_ timing, don't you?"

"Hey, you never complained about it when I stopped people from putting a bullet though your head."

"Yet you decide the best time to decide that I'm not to be trusted is when I'm trying to stop your stupid friend from blowing us all up."

"You know I didn't mean it. Sherlock is a convincing son of a bitch. I was in shock and running on the dregs of my adrenalin high and you weren't shooting Moriarty!"

"Did it look like I had a gun?"

"You managed to gas the snipers!"

"But I didn't have a _fucking gun_, did I?"

By this point we were both standing yelling at each other, in each others faces. Before one of us could do something stupid Sherlock tried to step between us. He knocked Steph's leg and her face went pale. I reached out and grabbed her then dragged her over to the sink just in time for her to throw up into it. I held what was left of her hair away from her face and supported her weight and let her ride it out.

Once she had stopped throwing up I gently eased her away from the sink. Her knees started to buckle so I just picked her up and carried her to the couch. Mycroft just cleared everything away and went to get a glass of water, content to let me look after the woman he wanted to protect the most.

"I would ask you when you last ate, but I don't suppose it matters now that you've thrown it all up." Her smile reassured me. It was not weak, and she seemed to be recovering. Mycroft handed me the glass of water and I handed it to her. She took it in a firm grasp and slowly sipped then passed it back to me.

"I wasn't dirty before I got in the fight. I can exist for years without any monetary support."

I pushed her down slowly til she lay back on the sofa and gently lifted her legs up. "Sleep. You'll feel better later."

"No I won't. My leg will ache and I'll be hungry and nauseous at the same time," she looked at me. "Get me something?"

"Of course, silly. Once you're asleep I'll run out to a pharmacy."

She smiled, then let her eyes droop. "Missed you, Doc," then she was asleep.

I stood an turned around. Round 1 with Steph might have been over but Round 2 with the brothers Holmes was about to begin.


	9. Chapter 9

Before Mycroft could start yelling I held up my hand. Steph needed to rest and an angry man yelling right beside her would not help. I walked into the kitchen and the brothers followed me. I knelt down under the sink to get the cleaning products Mrs Hudson had stashed there at some point after dealing with a particularly noxious experiment of Sherlock's. As I began to clean the sink full of vomit I spoke.

"Let her sleep. She needs it, hell, she deserves it. Just let me clean up this mess and then I'm going to go out and get food. You can come with me and I'll explain then, or you can wait here until she wakes up."

"I'll be coming, thank you," Mycroft's sarcastic thanks reminded me so much of Steph in that moment that I got lost in my memories of her. Reminded of the times that I'd seen people hurt her, and her responses. I must not have been concentrating very well because the next thing I knew Sherlock was yelling at me.

"John. John! The sink is clean. If you are conducting an experiment to see how long it will take to scrub your way through a metal sink I can tell you that without the aid of a moderately strong acid it will take approximately 15 months, 76 bottles of that particular brand of cleaning product and 1437 sponges."

I opened my mouth to ask how he knew, but reconsidered. That was probably a conversation that would make me feel even more mortified than I already was. Instead I said, "Come on. Let's go get something to eat."

* * *

The weather outside was mild, at least for winter in London it was, which really means it was cold enough to chill you to the bone. After asking Mrs Hudson to check in on Steph, and promising to bring back dinner, the three of us left 221B. We walked down the street to an Italian restaurant that Sherlock had told me was good. I ordered for myself, Steph and Mrs Hudson. Mycroft ordered for himself. Sherlock didn't order anything. I wasn't surprised.

We sat down at a table they had left for customers to wait. Sherlock was looking at me expectantly and Mycroft, well, you know what they say, if looks could kill...

"I served with Steph. In Afghanistan. She got assigned to our team for a few months. She was also the highest ranked officer in our team. Not that she ever ordered us around. She left the commands to Colonel Davies, the officer in charge. We never really worked out exactly why she was assigned to us because we never saw any sign that she actually did anything.

"I think she was with us for longer than she thought she's be. When we first met her she was disguised as a man. If it wasn't for a run-in with someone who had met her before I don't think she would have told us. She was with us for a few months. Steph could deduce, just like you Sherlock, but she was better with people. We were friends. After I was shot she made sure I got the best care available. She almost seemed guilty.

"When she got back she came to see me. It was just before you brought her around, Mycroft. She was worried that her only family didn't care about her and she wanted me to help her. She asked me to be casual when you brought her to 221B. She told me that if you actually noticed her, if you actually cared, one or both of you would realise that we knew each other. When neither of you did it hurt her. And then at the pool when I didn't trust her either I think it was the last straw."

"That does not tell me why you hid her hiding place from me," Mycroft seemed to miss the point of all of what I had said.

"I didn't bloody well know where she was," my anger was not making my voice loud as it usually did. I was quiet, instead, but it only made me sound more furious. "I couldn't find her either! She left without a word because she thought no-one cared about her. Looks like she was right. Everything is about the two of you! I tell you that she didn't think her family cared about her and you get angry because you think I was hiding information from you."

I could have gone on for hours. Luckily the food was ready. I stood and took my order and left the restaurant. Alone.

* * *

I left first, so I got home first. I could hear voices upstairs so I knew Steph was awake. As I ascended the stairs I heard Steph say to Mrs Hudson, "Oh, look. John's back with the food!"

I plastered a fake smile on my face as I walked in. "Here you go, Mrs Hudson. Just what the doctor ordered!" She giggled at my poor pun, "Do you think you could give us a minute?"

"Of course. My shows are on now, so I'll just go watch them downstairs."

* * *

Steph and I ate in silence. Sherlock turned up half way through our meal but Mycroft never came. Sherlock locked himself in his room and didn't come out. After we finished eating I checked Steph's leg. It seemed okay, but infection could be slow to reveal itself.

"I'm going to watch you tonight, make sure fever doesn't set in."

"It's fine, John. You don't need to stay up and keep a vigil over me."

"Just let me, okay? You scared me when you left and I couldn't find you. Do you know how many people I had looking for you? I couldn't keep up with you! You were all over Europe and the States too if some of the reports are to be believed..."

"John..."

"...and I don't think I can really trust some of the reports. Some of the people are quite shady characters..."

"John..."

"Not so say that I'm not thankful. Any word was better than nothing..."

"JOHN!"

"What?"

"You're rambling."

"I am? Really? Thanks for stopping me. I ramble when I get worried and you really had me worried. I literally had everyone looking for you because you mean so much to me and I don't think I could live without you. You really are my best friend and I..."

She leaned over and put her hand over my mouth, "Rambling again," was her explanation.

I answered with a muffled 'thank you' through her hand. I'm sure it came out more like "famnk ou".

"You're welcome. Now go to bed. I promise I'll still be here in the morning."


End file.
